The Game Master
by Cairn Destop
Summary: We all know the selection process for the tributes, but what about the person in charge?


"Proof of identification please."

He slipped his travel authorization through the slot to the guard within his enclosed booth. Over the years, he visited the Panem Palace many times, but always through the front entrance, never the side. When he escorted elementary children, most still held onto their sense of awe. Older teens thought of such trips as an escape from classes. As a college professor teaching history, his students had a jaded or bored expression.

His invitation said he could drive onto the palace grounds. He could go up the same driveway as many a diplomat or VIP traveled. He could park his car on the nearby lot where chauffeurs waited. Instead, he parked in a public garage several blocks from the palace. College professors didn't drive modern cars, they drove rattle-traps with faded paint and rust patterns on every dented fender.

The guard returned his papers and a section of fence opened. As he followed the sidewalk, he wondered which nearby gardener belonged to the security detail. A sense of relief overwhelmed him when the news staff remained inside. A glance at the walkway showed why camera pictures were always crisp. Embedded in the cement were marks the photographers used as focal points prior to the arrival of dignitaries.

A uniformed officer ushered him inside. With the exception of a body cavity search, they examined him for any contraband as if he were a prisoner and not an invited guest. Everything they did, they did without any facial tick or emotional display.

"You treat all visitors this way," he asked the guard who examined the contents of his briefcase.

The guard stared at him. "All Class-A personnel get passed through unchecked. Class-B, their assistants, go through the x-ray machine, Class-C, employees, go through an ID verification process. You're Class-D, a one-time invited guest. Don't force me to classify you as a Class-E troublemaker. That makes checking in very unpleasant for both of us."

Silence seemed prudent. Once past the guard, a uniformed officer escorted him to the end of the hall. He spoke with a lady who looked as if she predated the building of the Palace. With no chair nearby, he stood. Several moments passed before another guard led him upstairs and to another door on a corridor containing a multitude of similar doors. The guard guided him inside, gave a tip of the hat, and backed out, leaving him alone.

Anyone familiar with the Palace knew this room as the Focal Room. He stood at the wide side, which forced him to focus his attention on the desk and the man behind it. At least he would if the chair wasn't empty. Just as he decided on a chair, the balcony door opened.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," he said.

"Welcome, sir. Do you prefer John, Mr. Recon, or Professor?"

"John will do, Mr. President, and congratulations on securing another term."

The man ignored the comment and motioned him into a chair near his desk. The President opened the top drawer and retrieved a pair of glasses. They sat at the very edge of his nose as he reviewed the paper in front of him. He let the paper fall flat on his desk as he returned his spectacles to wherever he stored them.

"I have decided to go with your scenario. Can you do the job?"

John didn't expect this. He thought this an interview, perhaps even a discussion about his application. He anticipated questions defining its merits. Maybe a few regarding what he considered the strengths and weaknesses of his proposal.

"I believed my application was just one of many possible contenders. Finding out I have the job as Game Master is a shocker, a pleasant one, but still a shocker. Of course I'll take the job."

The President stood. "I have a busy schedule, follow me and I'll take you to your new office."

They retraced his earlier course until they reached one of the unlabeled doors. When the President opened it, they entered a waiting elevator that took them down to an underground parking garage. He climbed in the back seat facing the car's rear. The President sat between two members of his staff who ignored him. One rattled off names and figures at a rapid pace. The other dialed a cell phone, handed it to the President while preparing another cell phone.

"You'll excuse me," said the president, "such are the demands of office."

Their ride consisted of half a dozen one-sided conversations. Names of the rich or powerful bounced around the interior. Facts and figures no news commentator knew, or could comprehend, flowed like a rushing river. John marveled at how the man kept so many conversations straight during the thirty minute drive to a non-descript office building. The limo entered the loading dock and the doors remained closed until the gate sealed them inside.

Without any break in his conversations, the President led John and his staff members down a hall to an open door. Just before they entered the room, the President ended the last phone call. He ushered John into the room and approached the desk. A flick of a switch and a large television screen lit on each wall. At present, the screen remained a solid blue, devoid of any details.

"John, the Hunger Game has become standardized. Take a wilderness area, enclose it in a force field, add a few mutant animals, and you're done. That is why we offer the public the opportunity to submit a proposal for every twelfth game. I believe yours offers something that will counter the imbalance the four career districts have created."

"That was my intention, Mister President. The game needed something that challenged both mind and body, regardless of age. We needed a game that emphasizes life experiences and not a warrior's bloodlust. I'm pleased you have such faith in my idea."

"This is your final chance, John. Once I activate this worksite, you are committed."

John nodded. The President swiped a card through the reader on the desk. The four television screens sparkled with static before they cleared. Again, the same solid blue screen showed. John was about to speak when the President held up his hand for silence. The hallway clock chimed the hour and the screen's display changed to a countdown timer with three lines.

749 days

23 hours - 59 minutes

57 - 56 - 55 - 54 seconds

The seconds continued counting down, John watched the numbers decrease. When the minutes changed to fifty-eight, he shifted his gaze to the President.

"That clock is counting down to the start of the Forty-Eighth Hunger Game. It will not stop. The Game Master for the Forty-Sixth has less than twenty days and the Forty-Seventh just over one year. At present, you are the entire staff and will remain so until the close of the Forty-Sixth Game. That happens thirty days after the declaration of a winner."

"What am I suppose to do alone? I need a full staff if I'm expected to meet that deadline."

"Use the time to travel to the various sites and outline your construction deadlines. You'll have an experienced crew available soon enough. You'll be amazed how many details must be addressed between now and when that clock reaches zero. I wouldn't have chosen your concept if I didn't think it had merit. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to the Palace before my absence is noted."

With that, the President turned on his heels and exited the room. As he came abreast of his two aides, one handed him a phone while the other read off a series of budget numbers. John stood there, alone, in a huge building. He returned to his new desk and switched on the computer. It whirred for several seconds before its display filled the screen.

749 days

23 hours - 54 minutes

18 - 17 - 16 - 15 seconds

John pressed the enter key and after a two-second delay, his computer offered him a menu of options. He selected the first one.


End file.
